


underneath the skin

by bookhobbit



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: 5 Times, Gen, Kink Meme, M/M, Needles, Slash if you squint, Tattoos, gen if you don't, probably quite not as humorously lighthearted as the description implies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-14 00:58:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4544061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookhobbit/pseuds/bookhobbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, five times someone saw Norrell's tattow (and the one time he got a new one). </p><p>Kink meme fill for the prompt "Norrell with a tattoo".</p>
            </blockquote>





	underneath the skin

**Author's Note:**

> This was apparently sort of supposed to be a joke prompt so naturally it fell to me to make it as serious and plausible as I could. Thanks to glendasugarbean/rowrowrohirrim (as usual) for encouragement/Galdrastafir info/squeeing about stuff.
> 
> Warning for non-explicit use of needles and, less seriously, for possible anachronism, gratuitous archaic spelling of the word ‘tattoo’, and possibly-irresponsible fictionalization of runic magic. I mean, I did research for this but nevertheless half of the stuff I'm saying about it here is just totally made up. I don't think any of it's actually impossible, though.
> 
> ETA like three hours later: now with 20% more implied trans Norrell because you can't stop me and I want this to fit in with the Magic Circle verse. Feel free to ignore it if you want.
> 
> ETA2: with designs now because why not.

 

1.

"Well," says Haythornthwaite as his nephew shuffles into the dining room, "Let's see it."

Gilbert stiffens. "See what?" he says.

"Oh, don't try that. Your manservant told me all about your little adventure, boy. No shilly-shallying now. Shirt off."

"But - " Gilbert glances around at the servants.

"Oh, very well," says Haythornthwaite, waving impatiently. "You have a fair point. Your dressing room, then. Come, come."

Gilbert follows him up the stairs silently and mulishly, until they are in the dressing room alone.

"Now then," says Haythornthwaite.

Gilbert nods without making eye contact and begins to undress. For all his dark looks and sulks he is not a defiant child, not really. Haythornthwaite turns away, to give him privacy.

He turns back a few minutes later to find Gilbert standing there, shoulders hunched and mouth set in a frown. His shirt is still on - he is a very modest young man, Haythornthwaite has noticed - but he has pulled one arm out so that his left shoulder is uncovered. There is a bandage on the dressing-table which Haythornthwaite assumes was over the design before.

It is on boy's left side, swirling down his shoulder under his collarbone. It is an odd thing, full of symbols that seem to feed into each other, lines tracing up and down. Haythornthwaite recognizes some of the symbols from books, but by no means all of them, which is certainly a worrying sign. It is still red and angrily inflamed.

"Is it supposed to look like that?" he asks, gesturing. "It looks infected."

"The man who did it said it would take some time to be fully healed. I am to keep a salve on it."

"I see. Was it painful?"

Gilbert's frown deepens for a moment. "Exceedingly," he says coolly.

"I am surprized you saw it through."

There is the frown again. Haythornthwaite thinks Gilbert must have wanted something very much to have taken pain for it. He is not a child given to endure such things - soft, really. Not much spine. His own fault, Haythornthwaite supposes. Gilbert was twelve when he came to him, but Haythornthwaite had no idea how to raise a young man.

"Tell me, now. What were you thinking?" says Haythornthwaite.

"It is for magic," says Gilbert, an edge in his voice.

Haythornthwaite sighs. That would explain it. "You are young, Gilbert," he says. "What will you think when you are fifty, hmm?"

There's a sullen light in the boy's small blue eyes as he looks away and does not answer.

"Will you still be doing magic when you're fifty?"

"Yes," says Gilbert, barely audible.

Haythornthwaite sighs. "You know my aspiration is for you to take over the managing of this estate," he says. "Magic is a fit hobby for a gentleman, I will grant you. It is scholarly, and scholarship will sharpen your mind. You know I have always approved of your reading habits. Have I not told you to take full advantage of the library? But I have plans for you above scholarship alone."

"Estates can be managed by anyone," says Gilbert, hunching over. "Magic is different."

"How so? Any man with sufficient money to obtain a few books of magic may engage in its pursuit. It is hardly regulated."

"Oh, but you do not understand," says Gilbert, suddenly looking up with the queer eagerness that sometimes overcomes him. "It is not like that at all - I mean practical magic, that cannot be done by everyone."

"Practical magic! That is the province of vagabonds and cheats."

Gilbert flinches as if Haythornthwaite has struck him. "It's not," he says. "It's not." He looks as though he wants to say more, to marshal arguments and debate his point, but all he can do is shake his head. He is an odd young man, Haythornthwaite thinks for the umpteenth time.

"For God's sake, boy," says Haythornthwaite, sighing. "Study magic. Publish papers. Read books. I have no qualm with any of that. But do not dabble in the practical matters. It will ruin your reputation." He gestures at the symbol on Gilbert's shoulder. "I suppose there is no easy way to remove that."

"No."

"Well, what is done is done. You are a grown man and you will have to take the consequences of your actions in the future. I will not punish you, but in the future think before you act."

The boy blinks rapidly and looks as though he wants to say something, but does not. Haythornthwaite turns away.

"Come," he says. "Let us go down to dinner. I believe it will be ready by now."

 

2.

Norrell has no proper valet. Childermass knows this because he has worked for Norrell for nearly a year now, and has been the only one to help him dress. One of the footmen has the care of his clothes, now that Childermass is his man of business, but he seems to do most of his dressing himself, requiring Childermass only for assistance at the last stages or to him on with the chest-bindings. Even when this is being done, he keeps his back carefully to Childermass, as if hiding something. Childermass has never questioned this, for it is clear that Norrell is both eccentric and self-conscious, and so drawing attention to it would only cause more trouble.

One day, however, Norrell calls him and Childermass enters to find him standing in his dressing gown, with no shirt underneath, only his binder, which is badly-laced. He raises his eyebrows.

"Do you need help dressing, sir?"

"No." Norrell frowns. "I have developed a rash across my back and I cannot reach to put cream on it."

"Ah. Is it contagious?"

"No. It seems something in the new laundry soap disagrees with me."

"I see." Childermass helps him remove his dressing gown, and nearly smiles. For there is a tattow high on the left side of his torso.

It is a rather beautiful piece of art, and it is this that keeps Childermass from wanting to laugh at the incongruity. He can admire craftsmanship, and this is it - it must be a good ten years old, judging by the fading, but the lines still look graceful, elegant. There's some odd writing in a curving line, some symbols that look very magical, a flurry of ravens, what looks like a crown. He thinks he knows what it might be for, or at least vaguely.

"It's good work," he says.

Norrell sighs. "I had hoped you would not notice it," he says. "You did not before."

"You kept your back to me before. But it is rather large to go unnoticed, sir," he says.

"I know. It could not be smaller. The clarity of the symbols was of the utmost importance."

"I thought you hated the Raven King," says Childermass, and Norrell's lips tighten.

"I would rather not discuss it," he says.

Childermass looks at him thoughtfully for a moment. "Very well," he says. "As you are so uneasy, I can show you mine, if you wish."

"Yours - ?"

"I was a sailor," explains Childermass.

"When? You hardly look old enough."

"When I was sixteen." Childermass removes his jacket and begins rolling up his right sleeve.

"It must not have been very long. You are how old now, eighteen?"

"Twenty. Six months, it was."

"It can hardly have held your attention, then."

"Sailing up and down the Channel did not seem like a career with a future," says Childermass drily, and holds out his wrist to Norrell.

Norrell turns so he is facing him, and his eyes travel to Childermass's arm. The tattow is simple, only a raven holding in its mouth a rope that travels down Childermass's arm to wrap around his wrist.

"It is not very nautical," says Norrell.

"It is not meant to be. But the rope means I was a deckhand."

"And the raven?"

"I think you know. What is the writing?" Childermass puts out a hand as if to trace it, although he does not go so far.

"What?" Norrell says, eyes tracking Childermass's hand and returning to the design on his wrist.

"The writing," says Childermass patiently. "On yours. I do not recognize it. It's not Roman letters."

"Oh, no. They are runes. A sort of early Germanic writing. It is not used much today except in certain regions of northern Europe for specific purposes, but in the early Medieval period it was very common in Scandinavia, and it was often used in magic. It is excellent for sigils."

"Not English magic," says Childermass, raising an eyebrow.

Norrell looks annoyed. "Yorkshire was part of the Danelaw," he says. "Runic magic has been there ever since, before even the Raven King. Nearly a thousand years should be sufficient to establish a tradition of magic in England. In any case, the Anglo-Saxons used runes too."

"Nothing so English as Anglo-Saxon traditions," agrees Childermass. "Will you teach me to read it?"

"I am sorry? You wish to learn to read runes?"

"Yes."

Norrell shrugs. "I suppose so. It may help you assess manuscripts, I suppose. But you mustn't neglect your Greek, that is much more important. The number of fraudulent Greek books of magic that I have caught due to careful study cannot be overestimated. You must be able to do the same."

"As you say, sir," says Childermass. He withdraws his hand and rolls his sleeve back down, puts his jacket back on.

He spreads the cream across Norrell's back, careful to keep his touch firm and not light and brushing, which irritates him. Then he helps him on with his clothes, since he is here already, re-wrapping the bindings rather more skilfully.

"Thank you," says Norrell, when he is finished.

Childermass can feel his eyes track him as he goes.

 

3.

"Mr Norrell is still resting," says Lucas the footman.

"I need to speak to him," says Lascelles loftily. "It is a matter of the utmost importance."

"Well, you can't. He's abed."

"I will not be long. Admit me for some few moments only, and then he may finish his rest. The news is vital, man."

Lucas looks unconvinced; Lascelles suspects Norrell's longer-standing servants do not trust him. He attributes this to Childermass's meddling.

"It is a matter of government business," says Lascelles, taking a step forward.

Lucas steps aside reluctantly and bows slightly. Lascelles throws him a haughty look as he opens the door to Norrell's bedchamber.

Norrell is sitting up in bed with a cup of tea and his spectacles, reading a book. Well, of course he is. This is more or less how he spends a considerable portion of his day, after all. There is no reason his morning routine should be any less dull. Lascelles strides forward.

Norrell looks up at him and blinks rapidly. "Mr Lascelles," he says uncertainly, pulling the blankets up over his body.

"Mr Norrell." Lascelles gives a shallow bow. "I have some rather important news."

"Indeed?" Norrell shifts nervously and plucks at the blankets. "And what is it?"

"Sir Walter needs to meet you within two hours. There is some very urgent government magic that needs doing." Lascelles waves. "I, of course, did not ask for details. That is your purview."

Norrell sighs and set aside his teacup. "I see," he says. "Thank you for the warning." He puts the book down.

Through the thin fabric of Norrell's nightshirt Lascelles can see something dark on his shoulder, the only part of his torso not shielded by blankets.

"Have you an injury, Mr Norrell?" he says. Norrell draws back.

"No," he says, rubbing at the place with a hand. "Nothing like that."

Lascelles leans even closer. "Mr Norrell," he says, "Is that a _tattow_?"

Norrell turns away from Lascelles' gaze, which only confirms his hypothesis. "It is nothing," he says. "It is very old. Very old indeed."

Lascelles can hardly resist the urge to laugh. Why, the sheer ridiculousness of it! The idea of a man Norrell's age with a tattow! Such things are only fit for sailors and vagabonds, but prim little Norrell has one! He must tell Drawlight about this.

"Very old, you say," he says. "A moment of youthful impetuousness?"

Norrell glances back. "You might say that," he says, and his voice is more full of bitterness than Lascelles has ever heard it - which is quite an achievement. Yes, there is a story here, and Lascelles wants to know it. He wants to know not just the tale of how he acquired the tattow but also what it is, what it means to Norrell. He is quite sure it would all be highly amusing.

"Were you drunk?" he asks, sitting down on a chair.

Norrell's lips press together disapprovingly. "I rarely indulge in alcohol," he says. "You know that. I do not become drunk."

"Ah, but I take it you were young."

"I was seventeen," says Norrell, and the bitterness is back. Lascelles is determined to pry the story out of him one day so that he might enjoy it. True, most of Norrell's stories about his childhood tend to be crashingly boring - most of Norrell's stories about anything tend to be crashingly boring - but this one will not be, that much is certain. Not with that odd look on Norrell's face, as if he is remembering things he does not want to.

"Well," says Lascelles. "Many young men are not so temperate as they later grow to become. I dare say we all sowed our wild oats."

"I did not," says Norrell sharply. "I was not drunk." He pauses, as if considering. "Not on spirits," he murmurs, mostly to himself, and then shakes his head. "I would much appreciate it, Mr Lascelles, if you would leave me to get dressed. I can hardly appear at an appointment in such a state."

"Of course." Lascelles rises gracefully from his chair, and exits. He will get the story out of Norrell. Later, later. There will be time. He means, after all, to be his chief counselor. With Strange gone, and perhaps to die in the war, well. There will be time.

 

4.

After they take tea for the last time, Norrell looks heavy with weariness as he says, "There is something I must show you, Mr Strange."

"Indeed?" says Strange politely, for if this is to be their final meeting he ought to be polite, he thinks.

"I beg your pardon. It will seem extremely strange to you first. But - " He cuts his eyes away. "I suppose I should have done it earlier." He rises slowly, as if it hurts to move too quickly, and goes behind a screen, leaving Strange alone with the fire and his confusion.

This only grows when Norrell returns a few moments later, wearing only his shirt partly open at the front. "Sir," begins Strange, but Norrell holds up a hand.

"I realize this is exceedingly odd," he says. "But I must assure you that there is a point to it."

Strange nods. With trembling fingers, Norrell pulls aside his shirt to reveal his shoulder, which is covered with - some kind of markings, Strange realizes.

"What is that?"

"I told you that I spent most of my youth in the search for the Raven King."

"Indeed."

"This is one result." Norrell sighs. "I marked him onto my skin in the hopes that he would come to me, Mr Strange."

"You used runic magic," says Strange, reaching out to touch Norrell's shoulder. Norrell flinches on contact; his eyes shut.

"Yes," he says.

"Are those Galdrastafir? I did not know you were interested in seiðr."

Norrell sighs and shivers as Strange's fingers trace the symbol. "There was a period in my youth where I was tracing English magic back through its roots to the Anglo-Saxon days," he says. "Seiðr is ultimately connected to a corresponding English tradition, I believe, much older than the Raven King. Possibly brought during the time of the Danes, or perhaps even carried over with the original Germanic conquerors of the British Isles. I needed magic that was in England before him. I wanted to get his attention."

"It is not recent," says Strange. "It looks..."

"It is nearly forty years old. It has faded somewhat, for which I am eternally grateful." Norrell's face twists. "I was marked, Mr Strange. Marked as the Raven King's. By my own hand. And still he did not - " He stops.

"You feel abandoned," says Strange. "That is very clear. But it has been years, sir! Perhaps this time he will come!"

Norrell shakes his head. "I told you before, sir, I do not believe it to be worth the effort."

"You did forty years ago."

Norrell makes a sound of impatience. "Do you mean to tell me that you did not believe any number of foolish things in your youth?" he demands.

"Perhaps, but I had many good convictions at the time, too, some of which still serve me to this day. Youth does not indicate foolishness alone, sir."

"He has left us to fend for ourselves." Norrell's right hand comes up to touch the tattow. "This is only a visual reminder of just how much."

"You feel that personally, but how do you know he is not prevented? How do you know he would not come if he could?" Strange leans forward, without realizing he is already quite far into Norrell's space. Norrell's eyes focus on his face, and he steps back a moment.

"What do you think could prevent the Raven King?" says Norrell, and shakes his head. "Perhaps you might see now, why I - " He stops, and sighs.

"I am very sorry, sir, but I cannot agree with you." Strange keeps his voice firm. "My mind is not changed."

Norrell closes his eyes again for a moment. Then he nods slowly and begins to fasten his shirt again.

Strange leaves the house twelve minutes later in a very thoughtful mood indeed.

 

5.

It is a dream, Norrell thinks. A dream of a man. He does not know how it began, only that he is in a field, and the man is in front of him.

He is slender, almost delicate, with long dark hair and burning black eyes. He looks at Norrell with the insolence of a superior, yet he is young, dressed in black rags. In bearing and dress he reminds Norrell of no-one so much as Childermass. When he speaks it is with an unplaceable Northern accent, yet there is a hint of French and a lilting drawl to it that sounds like nothing in England or indeed on Earth.

"Gilbert Norrell," he says

Norrell knows him instantly from that voice.

"John Uskglass," he says, for he will not name him king. Not here, to his face.

"So I am."

"And what is it you want with me?" Norrell's fists are clenched and his arms stiff, tense with a defiance he would have dared on no-one else. It is odd, for this man in front of him could destroy him without lifting a finger; all his life Norrell has been afraid of him. And yet now, here, he is angry even above the fear.

"I do not want anything from you," the Raven King says. "You summoned me."

Norrell furrows his brow. The last time he can remember summoning the Raven King - "Why is Mr Strange not here also?" he asks. The Raven King shakes his head impatiently.

"Not that time," he says. "Before."

"Before?" He can only think of one time before and that was such a long time ago.

The Raven King's hand reaches out to touch Norrell's shoulder. "Here," he says. "May I see it?"

Norrell glares at him, and then, trembling, begins to undo his waistcoat. He is not wearing his jacket, for some reason, which he attributes to the fractured and illogical nature of a dream.

He does not remove his shirt, only pulls it aside, as he had to show Mr Strange.

The Raven King nods. "I am your servant. I mean you no harm. I exhort you to come. These runes will protect me. These runes will see my dreams fulfilled." He raises his eyes to Norrell. "Is this not a summoning?"

"Perhaps I have changed my mind," says Norrell, and there is a very old bitterness in his voice. "It has been some time since I called you, sir, and you did not deign to come then. I do not see why you should now."

"Child," says the Raven King, putting a hand out to Norrell's cheek as a parent does to pat it.

"I am not your child," says Norrell, shoulders tensing.

The Raven King looks surprized. "All English magicians are my children."

"In which case you have been a neglectful father, sir!" Norrell says. "You abandoned us!"

"Who is _us_? Who do you join yourself with?"

"England! English magicians!"

With an ironical expression that reminds Norrell of nothing so much as Mr Strange, the Raven King says, "They do not seem to mind so much. I see only you here."

"Oh, very well, if you would have me say it -" Norrell gives a stuttering gasp - "You abandoned me." Tears prickle at the corner of his eyes, to his shame. "I called you for years and you would not come. I found the way myself, through the doors in the world, and now that I no longer need you, now that I have learned to manage without you, then you call me child?"

"You have always been my child," says the Raven King softly, just on the edge of hearing, so that Norrell has to strain to catch it. "But you had to find your own way first."

Norrell finds that there are tears on his cheeks. "You left me," he says. "You left me alone."

"And now you are not alone any longer," says the Raven King. "You found your way."

"Without your help."

"More so than you realize." The Raven King folds his arms. "Do you think you could have done this on your own?"

"I did. I did do it on my own." Norrell pauses. "Well, perhaps with the help of Mr Strange." He scowls. "But certainly not of you."

The Raven King laughs. "A curious spell," he says, and shakes his head. "Know this, magician. I do all things in my own time."

Then he is gone and Norrell finds himself in an empty field alone, fully dressed again.

He remembers none of the dream when he wakes up.

 

+1

At the time of the incident, it is two years after Childermass begins serving Norrell.

"I have been thinking," says Norrell, looking up at Childermass from behind a book.

"Yes?" Childermass glances over at Norrell.

"You come into contact with a great deal of magic in your work for me."

"Indeed."

"There are protective sigils," Norrell says. "That is to say, there are some spells which can be written on an object or person and thereby safeguard it." He takes off his spectacles and fidgets a bit. "And you already have one tattow, so it can hardly be much trouble to get another."

Childermass raises his eyebrows. "Are you proposing to cast a spell on me, sir?" he says.

"Only a small one. The effects will be minimal. It will only be to guard you from harmful magical influences." Norrell looks down at his book. "I can hardly afford to have you compromised by a possible enemy magician. You might be forced to steal my books or my information."

"Hmm," says Childermass. "What would it look like?"

"I am not certain yet. I did not wish to begin unless I knew there would be some point to my efforts."

Childermass nods. "Very well, then. If you design it, I will find an artist to do it."

Norrell nods back. "That sounds satisfactory."

Two weeks later Norrell sets a piece of paper down in front of Childermass.

"That is the design," he says, with some satisfaction. "I believe it will shield you from any harmful magical influence, and may indeed offer some slight protection from physical threats as well."

Childermass considers the piece of paper in front of him. It looks to be composed mainly of what he now recognizes as a bind-rune.

"It looks simple enough," he says. "And it will go where?"

"I believe the most effective location will be on the chest," says Norrell. His eyes seem to linger on Childermass for a moment.

Childermass nods, and pulls his own piece of paper out of his desk.

Norrell frowns. "What is this?"

"You are exposed to far more injurious magical influence than I am," Childermass points out. "You might as well get one too. Perhaps we might combine them."

Norrell opens his mouth to protest, but grabs the paper to look at it and closes his mouth.

"This is an acceptable piece of work," he says accusingly, although Childermass is not quite sure what he is being accused of.

"Would you expect anything else of me?" says Childermass.

Norrell purses his lips. "It is hardly reputable for me to obtain such a thing," he says.

"You already have one, same as I do."

"I was seventeen at the time. I am over thirty now. There is a world of difference."

"If you cannot afford to have me exposed to magical manipulation, how much less for yourself?" Childermass points out. "If I can do damage to your cause, should someone enchant me, how much more could you do?"

"But I have means to safeguard against that."

"Why not take extra precautions?"

Norrell sighs, and makes a face. "Oh, very well," he says. "I shall study this carefully, mind you."

 _I_  would expect nothing else of _you_ ," says Childermass.

-

The bind-runes together are small and unobtrusive. As they are significantly less complicated than Norrell's summoning sigils, they can be fit neatly into a space no longer than a finger.

Childermass's is to go on his upper chest, just below the place where his collarbones meet; this ought to be low enough so that no-one will see it if he has his shirt on properly. Norrell's is going to be worked in near his already-existing one, so that it looks like the same piece of work.

"Will that not interfere with the existing spell?" asks Childermass.

Norrell's mouth tightens. "The existing spell has never done me any good," he says. "If it's disrupted I shall only be glad of it."

The artist is an old man, weathered by sun and rain, a friend of a friend of someone Childermass once served with. He arrives a week after Norrell decides Childermass's sigil is appropriate and asks for pay but mostly for beer. Fortunately, he does not bat an eyelash when he sees one of his customers is to be a gentleman wearing an old-fashioned wig and clutching a book to read while the incident occurs.

He prepares the needles with steady, scarred hands while Norrell watches.

"Do you wish to go first, or shall I?" asks Childermass, sitting beside him.

Norrell sighs. "I might as well get it over with," he says.

"I shall tell him."

When Norrell takes his shirt off the man's eyes assess the mark already on his shoulder, and he nods as if in approval. "Easy match," he says. "Fit right in. Same style."

Childermass stands beside him, looking at him, at the self-conscious hunch of his shoulders that the artist keeps having to straighten out, at the skinny arms and pudgy stomach, at the wig he refuses to take off and the wrapping the artist has fortunately made no comment about, and feels an odd wave of fondness.

Norrell clenches his fists very tight but makes no sound when the puncturing begins. Childermass slips a hand into his, after a moment, so that he may have something to do with his hands; it feels like a gesture too childish for them, but then this is a very unusual situation.

Norrell takes it and squeezes. Not so hard as Childermass expects. His first was much more elaborate and must have taken more time, and so perhaps even many years later he is still prepared for this particular discomfort.

Whenever Norrell tightens his grip, Childermass rubs little circles into his hand to distract him.

After a while it is Childermass's turn and Norrell, without asking, sits down with his book and takes Childermass's hand in return. Childermass has long since grown used to pain, and is not so bad at ignoring it, but all the same he keeps hold of Norrell's hand. It is not so very much that he needs it as that he wishes to acknowledge what the gesture might mean to Norrell.

They do not speak of it, but for a long time afterwards Childermass remembers vividly the sensation of Norrell's hand in his every time he chances to catch sight of the tattow on his chest.

In truth, it is not something he wishes to forget.


End file.
